Burn Bright, Burn Fast
by Silence-Speaker
Summary: Sam's name was picked, what was Dean supposed to do? Let his little brother enter the games and be torn limb from limb? Hunger Games AU.


Burn Bright, Burn Fast.

Sam's name was picked, what was Dean supposed to do? Let his little brother enter the games and be torn limb from limb?

#

Dean checks his knives one by one, testing each blades sharpness with the methodical ease of a well worn ritual.

He goes to the guns next.

Two small pistols and a rifle.

He wants to travel light, to be able to _run_ but he needs to pack enough ammo to survive.

He flexes his legs, encased in the well worn denim he was used to, a tear in the knee. Yeah, his sponsors may have provided other clothes, soft and never worn before, strong but Dean wasn't going to pretend to be something he wasn't.

He wasn't going to dress in fancy frippery just for the cameras. He was going to keep the comfort of his own clothes; he was going to keep the protection the rough denim provided along with his father's leather jacket that he had snagged on a whim as he left the house.

It still smelt like John and carried enough hints of him to let Dean find comfort in it.

"You could at least dress the part." Bela sniffs, tucking away her own collection of sharp implements. "You'll give our district a bad name."

Dean rolls his eyes.

"Nothing I can do can give it a worse rep." He snorts dismissively. Her eyes harden but her lips quirk in a way that says she agrees with his words.

He doesn't need to tell _her_ that district nines reputation is well earned. Bela knows better than anyone else what a hellhole their home district is.

What else could happen in the district that manufactured guns as its main export?

"I hope you have a game plan." Bela says nonchalantly as they wait; wait for the doors of the train compartment to open. To set them loose on a game designed to leave no one the winner.

"Yeah. Survive. Win. Get home to Sammy." Dean says sounding far more confident that he actually feels.

"With that attitude I hope you've picked out a grave spot."

"Yep. I wanna be buried in Ruby's back garden with a bottle of jack." He answers promptly, without even pausing to bat an eyelash.

Bela blinks.

"You know she would just dance on your grave." She observes, glancing over him with the first sign of interest in her shadowed eyes.

"Yeah. But it would also be enough of a reminder of me to stop Sammy mooning after her. She's bad news."

"That is...well, I can't decide between diabolical or petty." Bela contemplates, looking for the first time Dean has ever noticed like she is actually amused. Like he isn't a pane of glass for her to look through or a mildly irritating obstacle.

"Why can't it be both?" Dean shrugs with something that resembles the toothier, sharper cousin of a smile. Bela matches it, just as sharp, just as pretty hiding blood under a clean facade.

"Seriously, that is your game plan? Try to survive?" Bela queries looking torn between disgust and vague pity. Bela is far too hardened to feel any true pity or anything remotely resembling sympathy.

(Far too broken.)

"It's worked for me so far."

"Not well if you ended up here." Bela rolls her eyes.

"Hey, you aren't really one to be casting stones." Dean states. And it was the talk of the century for the games - the fact that district nine had _two_ volunteers. Dean volunteered because out of all odds Sam's name rolled out of the horrific parody of names in a hat.

He doesn't know why Bela volunteered.

What she was running from so hard and fast that made joining up to the suicidal games as the best option she could find.

He doesn't ask.

He doesn't like her enough to care. Plus she wouldn't tell him.

"You'd better think up a better strategy." Bela warns.

They fall back into silence. Dean checks his pockets and slips another lighter into his pack.

Their mentors enter the compartment.

Dean was prepared to hate them, to despise the person who after winning the games once came back to ply the next contenders with false confidence.

He didn't really expect Victor Henriksen's no nonsense, no bullshit demeanour.

He can't help liking the bastard a little.

"I hope you've at least brought a bit of liquid courage." Dean grins, feeling no hint of the relaxed amusement he takes care to portray.

"Liquor will slow your reflexes." Victor says dryly, offering just a hint of a glare. Their second mentor steps past him and offers Dean a hipflask.

Okay, Dean couldn't even muster up an ounce of hatred when he saw Ellen Harvelle. She won the games nearly twenty years ago and she is sort of Dean's hero. To be honest, in district nine she is everyone's hero.

He takes a swig of the excellent whiskey, offers the hipflask to Bela (who surprisingly accepts it) before handing it back.

"Thanks." Dean mutters. Ellen too has a no nonsense approach but there is something about the lines on her face, the pinched twist to her mouth and her ease with a shotgun that makes him want to trust her.

(This is probably because of the similarities between her and what he remembers of his mother but Dean tries not to think about that.)

"You've got tough competition." Ellen remarks in her slightly roughened voice that washes over him like a coarse hand ruffling his hair.

"It's always tough." Victor states.

"Watch out for the Masters, brother and sister duo from district seven." Ellen warns.

"Watch out for everyone." Victor snorts. "Don't leave your back free to _anyone_." His eyes linger over Dean and Bela.

"If one of you two makes it," Ellen says, looking between them with the sort of narrowed look that says she might actually think that one of them has a chance out there, "then look me up sometime. There might be things to discuss." She finishes cryptically.

Victor and Ellen share a glance.

Dean swallows, feeling every one of his eighteen years. Bela looks young, younger than the few months she has on Dean.

For a moment he tries to imagine what his dad would say about all this.

He hadn't had time to see him before he left for the games. John had gone out a couple of days before the name lotto on one of his mysterious errands and hadn't returned on the day Sammy's name was drawn.

Dean hopes he returned home by now, that he's looking after Sam.

He hopes that his father doesn't have to go through all this again, that he doesn't have to watch him die in these games like he watched Mary.

Sam was just a baby when their mother's name was pulled out but Dean remembers it. Remembers her grabbing her bags and going before John could get home, before he could take her place like Dean knows he would have done in an instant.

He remembers her pressing a wet kiss to his forehead (wet from tears) and her hushed voice telling him to look after his brother, to look after Sammy.

He remembers how she was burnt alive in the games, her eyes widening with shock as the flames tore her up.

She had come so close too. Her death signalled the end of the games and a winner in Azazel.

So yeah, he hopes Sam and John don't have to watch his grisly demise. Hell, he hopes he fucking survives because he wants to _live_.

The train comes to a stop with a slow jerk.

Victor claps Dean and Bela on the shoulder.

"Show time."

#

The thing is, Dean had expected Bela's betrayal. It wasn't even a betrayal, not really. Not when they were fighting for their lives, pitted against one another. He had expected that, made peace with it even if he didn't particularly like it.

(Which dumb shit said they had to kill each other? They weren't being held at gun point...)

What he hadn't expected was for Adam, the youngest out of all the contestants. He hadn't expected the kid to remind him so much of Sammy. He hadn't meant to take the kid under his wing either, just more baggage to look out for but how could he not?

Adam was just a kid.

(And in his big liquid eyes all Dean could see was Sammy at that age, laughing at the fireworks.)

He was just a _kid_ and someone planted explosives where they knew Adam would go.

Dean had gutted the bastard good but that didn't bring Adam back, didn't put any life back into those blank, sightless eyes.

Adam was a goddamn _kid_.

Younger than Sammy even.

And no one blinked when he was gutted like a fish, snuffed out of existence. Discarded like rotten fruit.

Fuck that.

Dean grabbed his knife, gritted his teeth and continued.

#

"Eight." Dean mutters to himself actually surprised that these people stopped to listen to him rather than blow his brains out when he first approached them.

Well, Rufus had certainly tried to blast him into pieces but he had _listened_.

Eight people including himself. He damn well hopes this worked. It's too late for Adam, for Bela, but maybe they can make people sit up and look around.

"So..." Lisa began, keeping her voice hushed, "what do we do?"

Lisa had been one of the participants who Dean had pegged would die early on. He was wrong. She's damn stubborn with someone to return home for. She managed to hold on despite all the odds and all for her son.

Dean hopes she makes it back home.

Dean glances around at everyone in their small group.

He looks to Crowley who has a sharp kind of intelligence to his eyes and a determined fire within to come out on top.

To Sarah, who comes from a wealthy family but had calluses from a gun before she joined the games.

To Madison who started out shy and downtrodden but after managing to look after herself through a mixture of luck and some inbuilt survival instinct decided that she was no ones doormat.

To Rufus who is a stubborn son of a bitch, the oldest of them there and the one person Dean thinks would emerge triumphant if they decided to follow the rules that pitted them against one another.

To Anna, whose flame red hair announces her presence and a trail of dead bodies show her progress.

And finally, to Castiel, the one who surprised them all, who gripped a sword with a bewildered expression before wielding it with unforeseen grace. Who despite his unimpressive demeanour and wide eyes is possibly the best fighter out of them all.

"We stand tall." Dean says, quietly but with all the determination he feels pressed into every single syllable. "We work together. We dig our heels in and say 'no'. We scream to the heavens, pray, beg, bleed and we _force_ them to set us free. We get in front of those damn cameras and we give them a show they can't hide, can't erase, can't forget." Dean looks at them all, scratched up, bruised and so very weary.

He slowly pulls out his gun and with every eye upon him; he tosses it to the side.

It's symbolic, he has all number of weapons strapped to him but the others understand, they get it.

Castiel is next. He tosses aside his sword like it hasn't been his constant companion since these bloodthirsty games started.

"We fight for peace." Castiel states, every word a benediction, blue eyes burning bright.

"Well, the devil makes for strange bedfellows." Crowley puts in dryly, setting aside a small pistol.

"I ain't fightin' for peace but I'll sure fight for an end to these games." Rufus snorts.

"I'll fight for the freedom to return home." Lisa says.

"Here, here." Madison smiles. It isn't a soft, gentle smile she might once have given, but a sharp one, full of teeth, grit and resolve.

"We will go down in flames." Anna declares.

Dean shrugs.

"I've always liked a good fire."


End file.
